Banana Pancakes
by Starlightlovesya123
Summary: Six thirty on a rainy morning and the phone rings. Their arguments rarely produce this much laughter. Spitfire. Songfic.


_You hardly even notice  
when I try to show you  
this song is meant to keep you  
from doing what you're supposed to,  
like waking up too early;  
maybe we could sleep.  
I'll make you banana pancakes;  
pretend like it's the weekend now.  
And we can pretend it all the time._

A frothy light spills into the bedroom from outside the closed shades. It's dimmed by the falling rain, trilling a steady heartbeat, tapping the dirty window. Inside the house, the fan whirs over two sleeping figures, wrapped in sheets like hot pockets. One of them has his arms slung haphazardly across the bed, his right resting atop his companion. She, on the other hand, sleeps in a contained ball, the blankets covering her chin. The two breath slowly, deeply, as the digital clock switches to _6:30._

It's at that exact moment when the phone rings. The stereotypical, high-pitched noise cuts through the calm and snatches their sleep right away from them. They're aren't exactly surprised—alarms and phones and annoying noises come with the job description. Full-time superhero, and now? Full-time spouse.

The phone continues to cackle its amused screech, and the woman reacts first. Drowsily, she reaches over her husband and gropes—with no avail—at the device.

His hand shoots out suddenly from beneath his pillow. It grabs her wrist, pulls it away from the phone, leaving her blinking in surprise. Normally, a half-asleep man would have a difficult time being that quick_ and_ that accurate. But, then again, this half-asleep man is _Wally_.

"Don't," he grumbles, his mouth still pressed into the mattress.

Artemis twists her arm out of his grasp and leans over, peering at the Caller ID. "It's Dick," she says. Her eyes flick over to the clock. "Damn, it's early. He must really need us."

"Nope. No, he doesn't," Wally concludes.

"Seriously, he wouldn't be calling us this early if—"

"He wouldn't be calling us this early if he wasn't a little _psychotic, _Artemis," Wally interrupts. He looks up at her, cocking an eyebrow. "He's a Bat. They're all insane."

She smirks, acknowledging this comment as true, but makes a reach for the phone again. "Yeah, but—"

"Nope." Wally's sitting up now, clutching both of her arms. "Not today. We're not going in."

"Wally." Her voice is stern, but it's difficult to keep a straight face when her husband looks so ridiculously _goofy._ His red hair is tossed with cowlicks, and there's rheum in the corners of his eyes. His t-shirt is from Universal Studios Florida, and features a rather inaccurate drawing of Barry in his Flash suit. Beneath that, he's wearing coffee-stained boxers proclaiming "Science Rocks!" with an assortment of cartoony test tubes. No socks, of course. Running at the speed-of-sound across hardwood floors—in socks—has proven itself a bad idea.

"What?" he asks. "I'm being serious. You're not going to answer that phone."

"Well, I can't _now_," she points out, as the device has stopped its incessant blabber. "But I'm calling him back."

She lunges forward, pushing Wally aside, but a half-second later he catches her, throwing her back onto the comforter. A grin almost as ridiculous as his boxers coats his face. "No, you're not."

"I'm not fighting you for rights to use my own telephone," she says. Her eyes are narrowed but her heart isn't in it. He can see that, and she knows it.

"You sure about that?" he replies. "I'm pretty sure we're fighting right now."

"We're not fighting. We're arguing."

"But we _could_ fight," he says. "That might be fun. Y'know, just as long as you stay in bed."

Groaning, she ducks under his arm and throws herself towards the nightstand. He counters by sliding across the bed, seizing her about the waist. Then they're rolling, tumbling in the thick cotton sheets. Spinning like tops.

A tiny hesitation and he holds her down, one hand on each of her shoulders. The mocking look he produces is absolutely unbearable.

"Pinned ya," he teases.

Artemis shoves him away, hooks her arms around his neck, twists the blanket in her fists. Wally falls backwards until he's barely hanging onto the mattress, his hair—in desperate need of a cut—brushing the carpet floor.

He chuckles. "That's more like it."

Soon they're underneath the comforter, wrestling in some sort of weird mix between horseplay and jujitsu. Wally's laughing and Artemis wants to kill him, but she can't even move because he's found her weak point. He's lifted her shirt, letting his fingers slide across her bare stomach. Then he's covering her midriff in sloppy, rapid-fire kisses, kisses only a speedster could produce so quickly. She tries not to squeal but fails—God, she's horrifically ticklish. Her squeals turn to uncontrolled laughter, laughter so pure and deep that it shakes her whole center.

Wally's lips build a string up Artemis' body, pausing momentarily at her shoulder, then working down the collarbone and to her chin. He envelopes her now, drawing his wife's body against his chest. She gives in a little too easily.

"You're awful," she gasps. "Absolutely disgusting. Dick could be in horrible trouble right now, and it would be nobody's fault but yours."

"Eh, if Nightwing was in any real trouble, he would have used the comm," Wally replies. "Besides, he can handle himself."

"And you can't?" she shoots at him, a last-second jab, seeing if maybe he'll release his hold.

He looks down at her, smiles. Completely innocent, no holds barred, a little boy gazing upon his most prized possession.

"No," he answers.

Artemis opens her mouth to reply, but finds she doesn't have one.

He swings his legs off the bed and stands up, still carrying her like a damsel in distress. She permits this, for the time being. She also permits his words in her ear: "C'mon, I'm making you pancakes."

"Pancakes? At six thirty?"

"Yup. And then, providing I don't burn the house down?

Then we're going back to bed."


End file.
